


All Or Nothing

by misanthropiclycanthrope



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-05
Updated: 2014-03-05
Packaged: 2018-01-14 16:43:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1273666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misanthropiclycanthrope/pseuds/misanthropiclycanthrope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the face of Porthos's determination, Athos finally stops fighting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Or Nothing

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this with absolutely no idea where it was going, but prompted by [this](http://themisanthropiclycanthrope.tumblr.com/post/78464727803/if-one-were-to-give-athos-and-porthos-a-ship-name) thought. Copious amounts of alcohol later, and here is the result!
> 
> I apologise for any and all errors, and issue a minor **warning** for brief descriptions of non-graphic, canon-typical violence.

Pain and black oblivion.

His world has narrowed to alternating flashes of pain and unconscious senselessness. The black void, each time it descends, brings with it an insensibility that is a welcome relief to the agony that otherwise flares in every nerve of his body, enshrouding him, permitting his mind to escape its corporeal prison.

It is much like being drunk, only with none of the ephemeral pleasure afforded by wine.

Every time the black cloak lifts, as it always, inevitably, does, his body screams in protest; air sears his lungs with each breath, every raw wound alight with fire, a hundred dull aches having long ago merged so the origin of each can no longer be discerned.

Raising his eyes, he meets the hostile stare of his captor, the dark eyes the only visible feature of his hooded face. His questions have gone so long unanswered that he has stopped asking them, instead taking perverse pleasure in finding as many different ways to administer pain, seeking a response.

Athos will not give him the satisfaction of doing so.

The stoic impassivity that meets his attempts only enrages him further, makes him more determined. A well-placed blow to already cracked ribs sends fire through the captive’s abused body, but a grunt and a steely glare is the only reaction.

Incensed, the fist strikes again, twice as hard. The coarse rope around Athos’s wrists cuts into the already enflamed skin; that rope, binding his hands up above his head, the only thing now keeping him upright, bears his full weight as he sags, the darkness creeping back into the edges of his vision.

He welcomes it.

* * * *

The unexpected touch to his cheek has him wrenching his head away, avoiding whatever savagery it presages this time.

“He’s alive.”

That voice...familiarity registers somewhere in a part of his mind that still clings to consciousness and, for the first time, Athos fights his way back up through the black fog, forcing it to part. Blinking his eyes open, he focuses on the face in front of him. Relief floods through him, overwhelming everything else; never has he been so glad to set eyes upon Porthos.

He blinks again, willing the man before him not to be a figment of his fevered mind, and his dry, cracked lips part as if to speak, but no sound emerges.

Then strong arms – warm, solid, and very definitely real – are around him, supporting him as Aramis slices through the rope, releasing him from his restraints, and he collapses against his friend, Porthos easily bearing his weight. For several moments, Athos is content to be held in that secure embrace, until the blood begins to flow back into his numb hands with a prickling heat and he inhales sharply through his teeth at the discomfort.

Aramis is speaking, telling Porthos they need to leave. Porthos adjusts his grip to let Athos find his feet.

“Can you walk?”

Athos nods, not at all certain that he can, but he’s damn well going to try. Porthos seems to understand his determination, and also his uncertainty, for he keeps one arm locked around Athos’s waist, holding him close as they begin their slow exit.

By the time they make it outside, to where the horses have been tethered, Athos is trembling with the effort to retain command over his unresponsive limbs and he wouldn’t have still been standing were it not for Porthos’s sturdy presence at his side.

“You can ride with me,” Porthos offers, and Athos nods grateful acceptance. He is helped onto the horse and Porthos mounts behind him, taking the reins in one hand and clasping the other around Athos’s waist.

Each step of the animal beneath him jolts painfully through him, but Athos grits his teeth and leans against the solid chest at his back. Porthos tightens his hold and speaks to him in a low voice – words whose meanings are lost, but bring comfort from their very existence.

The journey passes in a hazy blur; the one thing Athos is fully aware of is Porthos’s constant presence, but even that cannot ward off the return of the dark void, and he blacks out again before they reach their destination.

* * * *

When he wakes, it is to find himself lying on his own bed, Aramis bent over him, examining his injuries. Realising his patient is awake, Aramis smiles and lays a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

“There is nothing that won’t heal given a little time,” he announces confidently.

Athos is distracted from Aramis’s ministrations by fingers gently brushing his hair from his damp forehead. He turns his head to find Porthos looking down at him with such an intense mixture of relief, concern, and affection in his dark eyes that Athos feels the warmth of it spread in his chest.

He pushes that heat away, knowing nothing good can come of such emotions. He will not allow himself to form such an attachment again, and he must stop Porthos doing the same, at least toward Athos; that would be a foolish path to take, where surely only pain and disappointment lay in wait for him to approach unawares.

“I’ll stitch the worst of these cuts, and I have a tincture I can apply to the bruises,” Aramis is saying, but Athos stays his hand before he can commence his treatments.

“Just you.”

He silently implores Aramis to understand and comply with his wish. Confusion flickers briefly in his friend’s eyes as Aramis wonders where this sudden shyness has hailed from. They have all suffered injuries before, but had never been embarrassed about sharing them with their companions in the past. Nevertheless, he isn’t going to argue with the request. Aramis looks first to d’Artagnan, who is stood nearby – having been fetching and carrying for him – and then to Porthos.

“Gentlemen,” he says, “Perhaps you might afford me a few minutes to work.”

“Yes, of course.” D’Artagnan immediately obeys without question, disappearing through the door, but Porthos doesn’t move.

“’M staying.”

Athos doesn’t look at him, can’t bring himself to do so, but he can feel the man’s gaze boring into him, perplexed.

“Please,” Aramis insists. “You may return later.”

For a moment, it seems Porthos is going to ignore him, but that would also mean neglecting Athos’s wishes.

“As you wish.” He sounds hurt, his confusion conveyed even through the low growl of his voice, then he, too, retreats, leaving Athos alone with Aramis.

Concentrating on his work, Aramis stays silent for a while, and Athos doesn’t miss the worried glances cast toward him. Finally, Aramis can no longer contain his concerned curiosity. “Why did you want them to leave?” he asks.

Even had he not been in pain and lacking in energy, Athos wouldn’t have been able to find the words to explain his reasons; nor does he wish to burden his friend with his own troubled thoughts. So he remains silent.

Recognising that he will get nothing from Athos, Aramis completes his task asking no further questions, for which Athos is glad. When he is finished, Athos speaks only to thank him.

“I’ll send d’Artagnan with some food.”

“Thank you, no. I’m not hungry.”

“Regardless, you should eat. It will help restore your strength.”

Knowing he will not be rid of Aramis until he has made some concession, Athos offers him a compromise. “Maybe later.”

Partially satisfied, Aramis finally leaves, and Athos is alone with his thoughts.

Porthos holds no blame, yet Athos cannot help but wonder how he has inadvertently allowed himself to begin to feel something for the man beyond mere comradeship. He must determine a way to curtail it, prevent it growing into anything more before Porthos gets himself inextricably entangled in the mess. But his mind cannot focus; he drifts in and out of sleep as exhaustion claims him.

He has just as little command over his dreams.

* * * *

A soft knock at the door rouses him a few hours later. Athos opens his eyes to see d’Artagnan enter the room holding a plate.

“Aramis asked me to bring you some supper.”

“And I told Aramis I wasn’t hungry.”

Momentarily nonplussed, d’Artagnan frowns at the plate in his hand as if it might tell him what he is supposed to do. Receiving no answer, he places it on a table.

“I’ll just…leave it here.”

Athos’s only response is a minute, apathetic shrug. Not to be deterred, d’Artagnan tries another approach.

“Porthos wants to visit.”

“No.”

“But he—”

“I said _no_!”

The vehemence in his voice stuns the young Gascon into silence, and Athos immediately regrets taking his own bitterness out on the boy.

“I’m sorry, d’Artagnan. I’m just tired.”

“Of course. I’ll leave you to rest.”

D’Artagnan is unable to hide the worry on his face as he backs out of the door, but Athos guesses he will put the Musketeer’s quick temper down to the pain from his injuries. It’s best to let him believe that is the reason for it.

Alone once more, Athos struggles up into a sitting position, teeth clenched painfully as his body protests the movement. Once there, he takes a couple of steadying breaths before risking a glance down at his still-shirtless torso. Grimacing, he lightly fingers the fresh wounds, the vivid bruising that has blossomed on his skin a testament to the damage beneath. These physical wounds will heal; it is the less obvious suffering that will inevitably linger.

Carefully, he makes his way to the door where he slides the bolt home, then, as he passes a cabinet, he lowers himself into a crouch so he can investigate its contents. Withdrawing one bottle of wine and one of brandy, he contemplates them for just a moment before returning to the bed with both.

There is no point telling himself that he will not find an answer in either.

* * * *

The door rattles violently under the force of an incessant pounding, sounding for all the world like it might break free of its frame any second. It is impossible to ignore, but Athos does so anyway.

“Athos!”

The voice belongs to Porthos, loud even through the door, taking advantage of a lull in the knocking. Athos tips the bottle in his hand back for another swig, then looks at the door, willing the man behind it to leave, yet at the same time wanting nothing more than to grant him entry.

Porthos doesn’t seem to care that Athos might be sleeping, such is his determination to get in; there is little chance anyone in the vicinity could still be asleep after that racket.

“Athos, if you don’t open this door, I’m gonna kick the damn thing down!”

Knowing with absolute certainty that Porthos had every intention of carrying through on his threat, Athos puts the bottle down and pushes himself up off the bed. Crossing to the door, he unlatches the bolt before returning to his perch.

A look of relief flits across Porthos’s face as he enters, until he catches sight of the empty wine bottle sat beside the half-empty brandy bottle, and his expression morphs into something more akin to disappointment.

“How much have you drunk?”

Athos raises his gaze, and casts a lacklustre glance at his fellow Musketeer. “I can see only one of you, therefore I conclude that, however much I have drunk, it is not yet enough.” In truth, he is not yet as drunk as he would like to be.

He reaches for the bottle, but Porthos is quicker. Athos’s fingers close on empty air and he drops his fist uselessly to his thigh. He is in no state to fight Porthos and they both know it.

“Why are you punishing yourself?” Porthos is genuinely puzzled by his friend’s behaviour, even though he knows how given to bouts of morose despondency Athos is.

“That’s not what I’m doing.”

“Really? Because that’s exactly what it looks like from where I’m standing.”

Athos can’t really argue with that. When he speaks, his voice is dulled, devoid of spirit. “Please leave, Porthos.”

“No.” Porthos’s reply is as vehement as Athos’s request was not, and his tone brooks no argument. “Don’t push us away, Athos. Don’t push _me_ away.” He kneels in front of Athos’s feet. “I won’t let you.”

Athos avoids meeting Porthos’s gaze, staring instead at his own hands resting in his lap. “You deserve better,” he says, almost inaudibly. While it sounds like a non sequitur, Porthos understands the meaning of Athos’s words.

“Better than you? How many people do you think have ever shown me the regard you have? I can count them on one hand. But you…you have never shown me anything but friendship, trust, and courtesy, and you have always accepted me for who I am. Athos, you are the best of men.”

The uncharacteristic loquacious response has Athos finally raising his eyes. The earnestness behind the words clutches at his heart.

“And you, Porthos, are a good man, too. Where it matters most: at heart. You should find someone worthy of your attentions to care for.”

“With the greatest respect, I disagree.” His eyes hold Athos’s, fervent passion dancing within them.

“I’ll only hurt you.”

A frown creases Porthos’s brow. “You could never hurt me,” he states simply.

Athos closes his eyes, unable to bear the compelling emotion that hovers between them, an almost tangible entity. Blunt fingers brush against his cheek and his breath catches in his throat. He stays still, unmoving as the fingers trace the line of his jaw through the scruff of his beard, continue down his throat and across his collarbone, gently feathering over one of the lacerations so recently stitched shut by Aramis, the fond touch so incongruously light from such a big man.

Athos grasps the hand with his own and feels fingers curl around his, securing the union. Sensing a movement in front of him, he opens his eyes just as Porthos leans close enough to bring their lips together. He issues a soft gasp; Porthos’s mouth smiles against his.

The chaste kiss lasts only a moment, but as Porthos begins to pull away, Athos grasps at his doublet, halting his retreat. With a laugh that rumbles softly through his chest and a quick flash of white teeth as he grins, Porthos acquiesces, moving forward to settle between Athos’s thighs and claims his lips once more in an ardent kiss.

No longer does Athos want to fight himself. He has been doing it for so long, and yet it seems so natural to give in now. He loses himself in the contact, tasting, clutching…

Until a sharp pain shoots from his stomach to his shoulder and he can’t stifle the pained groan that is drawn from him. Immediately his discomfort is apparent, Porthos is sitting back on his heels, searching his face for signs of damage. “I’m sorry,” he says, aghast at having hurt Athos.

Athos shakes his head dismissively, a smile evident at the corners of his mouth as the pain subsides in favour of the warmth of love.

“I’ll live.”

Porthos gives him a nod that conveys complete agreement, and contains the promise to ensure that that remains the truth. “Yeah, you will.”

Athos tugs him forward again, and Porthos comes willingly.


End file.
